600 Pills
by gypsy season
Summary: After the overdose, Wilson is conflicted. He can't let his friend die, but he can't kill his morals either.


**600 Pills**

When Wilson walked out, all House could think was, 600 pills. What was he ever going to need 600 pills for? Cooking with vicodin? 600 fucking pills… but all those were gone too, now, so he compensated by taking 30 pills. 30 into 600 makes 20, so he'd have to do this 19 more times to make it worth his while.

Did Wilson have 19 more dead patients? House figured he could probably get Cameron to kill a few, but that wouldn't take care of any more than 9 at the most, 10 if he was lucky. Although he couldn't understand why Wilson would need to keep so many other dead patients around if he already had one.

He managed to roll back onto his side so he wouldn't pull a Jimi Hendrix. Just outside his door, another Jimmy was in a panic, torn between putting his fist through a wall and tearing out his hair. He settled for trying to bite through his bottom lip, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his fists over them until he saw spots, House's key digging into the palm of his left hand. If he didn't purse or bite his lips, he was sure he would scream, and he didn't want to wake the neighbors.

Even on the verge of a breakdown, Wilson was always so considerate.

It ended up being out of consideration that he eventually re-entered the apartment. He could have called an ambulance, or Cuddy, but as a doctor, he had sworn an oath to do no harm. Cuddy would undoubtedly have fired the hospital pharmacist, fired Wilson for being so careless with his prescriptions, and then maybe she would have fired House for good measure. Not like he didn't deserve it, but a 911 call would have seen House on suicide watch and then in prison, stripped of his medical license permanently.

After all, wasn't House's medical expertise worth 100 million dollars? Wilson's wasn't. He could sulk and be bitter about it, the numbers game that came back to haunt him every time he lost a patient, but being bitter didn't save lives.

So in order to cause the least amount of damage possible, Wilson just took the burden upon himself. It's what he always did.

But from the way things were going, Wilson wouldn't be surprised if House ended up in jail anyway. He wouldn't be happy about it, but he would not be surprised.

Wilson found House right where he had left him, coughing wetly as he tried to tuck his knees into his chest. Hating himself both for leaving and for coming back, Wilson desperately wanted a balcony to escape to, or jump off. The stink of vomit was overpowering.

It was good news, though. Better out than in, better eating a hole in the floor than House's stomach.

Without saying a word, Wilson stepped over House's body, crouched down and roughly pulled him up by his shoulders, not even trying to be gentle as he slammed his back hard against the couch, hard enough to startle House into new confusion, eyes struggling to stay open and find something to settle on.

"'M fine," he mumbled reflexively, trying in vain to push Wilson's hands away, his head tipping forward until his chin came to rest against his sternum, so that Wilson had to hold him and keep him from falling over.

"That's right, you're always fine," Wilson spat facetiously, pushing back a little too hard against House's feeble protests. What was it they used to say… don't beat the beaten?

House coughed, his eyes lazily scanning the room until he found Wilson. "Jimmy…"

"You are not fine."

The proximity of the whole thing was the hardest to bear. It wasn't just having to face the man who had betrayed Wilson in every possible way; there was vomit on his breath and on his lips, and then he coughed and choked and it came up again and all down the front of his shirt, his pants and onto the floor.

Keeping a firm hand on House's shoulders, Wilson adjusted his stance so that he could lean over better without falling into his mess. "Jimmy," House said again, gasping it out between the heaves, his hands scrambling to take hold of Wilson's wrists. "Was jus'… one too many."

"By one, I hope you mean one bottle of pills," Wilson retorted, feeling his own stomach churn.

The difference between fine and stable was something that doctors were obligated to know off the top of their heads, backwards and forwards and inside out. Stable was unconscious and physical, the heart being able to beat, the lungs being able to maintain airflow, the brain still zapping information to everywhere. Even if the mind refused, the body continued to function and survive as always.

One could not possibly just will their heart to stop; that was beyond impossible. But Wilson had been watching House self-destruct for years, knowing all the ins and outs of medicine and anatomy and everything he would ever need to know about how to shut the body down.

There was a difference between fine and stable; doctors were expected to know this better than they knew the backs of their hands. But to be able to apply it to a critical patient was one thing. Judging the stability and "fine"ness of drug-addicted maniac who only knew stable was harder. Stable and fine were worlds apart.

--

"What are you writing?"

"Mein Kampf," he said. "Don't touch the windows." House was sitting up against the headboard, looking like he was going to collapse, with a notebook in his lap and a pen in his trembling hand. A cool breeze hit Wilson square in the face, blowing in from the open window, and he saw that the rest of House was shaking just as bad as his hands.

"House, you're freezing."

"I said don't touch the windows," he snapped, asserting more anger this time.

"Hypothermia is not going to take away any of the pain. I would hope that even you knew that."

"What part of…" House paused, wracked with insuppressible shivers, "'don't touch the windows' do you not understand?"

"It's cold out, and it's cold in here. You're sick; you do the math," Wilson said, moving closer to the bed.

"It's hot, I feel like I'm gonna puke, I need air."

"Well you just OD'ed. Don't complain about the puking," Wilson said, and touched the back of his hand to House's forehead. He felt cold, clammy and damp, from the ice-cold Christmas winds blowing into his room. "You're freezing. Get over it."

In one swift motion, he leaned over the bedside table and slid the window shut.

He turned and saw House glaring at him, still shivering, possibly even worse than when the window was open, piercing him with his cruel, ice-blue eyes. Slowly, evenly, his voice thick with rage, he said, "You open the god damn window. Now."

"No," Wilson said simply, watching House expectantly, and flicked the window lock shut. This set House off, and he threw his pen and notebook at Wilson and struggled to untangle himself from the sheets, his actions borderline frantic.

"Get back!" House held his left arm out, as if that was any kind of threat, jumped out of bed, bracing himself against the mattress with his right arm. "Get the hell back!"

"House, what are you-"

"I can't breathe! Just get out." Half stumbling and half lurching, House pushed past him.

"Shit!" Wilson was still a doctor, and still very well aware of the results of drug overdose, so naturally he feared the worst. Predicting respiratory arrest, he made a mental promise that he would call 911 if House's breathing went downhill.

House made it all the way to the bathroom before having to stop, slumping against the doorway. Taking time to breathe while Wilson fumbled for his cell phone, he took one final step into the bathroom and fell, coughing and gagging. Wilson rushed forward and helped him up to reach the toilet, dropping his phone, the call forgotten. Gripping the porcelain with vice-like fervor, House continued to gag, but nothing came up.

After a few minutes of Wilson holding his breath and holding House's shoulders, House gave up, resting his face on the toilet seat.

"Could you get me something, Wilson?" He was covered in a film of sweat, looking even paler and sicker than before.

"I thought you don't need anyone," Wilson said rudely, having backed away and found the doorway an adequate distance to rest.

House squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, not liking Wilson's answer. "No, I just need… just one. Please…"

"No," Wilson said, trying to mask his disgust. House asking for drugs was no surprise, and neither was it any kind of pleasantry, but House begging for drugs, House saying please, was just such an obvious lie that it hurt to imagine him still trying to get what he thought he needed. "You need to get this out of your system."

"There's nothing left," House protested weakly.

Wilson got up and washed his hands, scrubbing feverishly under the stream of cold water. "Well if you can't do it yourself, then you need to get your stomach pumped."

"It's your fault," House said, and Wilson ignored him, looking at his shoes, or at his reflection in the mirror, just so he didn't have to look at the sick man on the floor. "You… killed your patient. If he was alive, I wouldn't have got the pills."

"That's right, blame everyone but yourself."

"You told Tritter!" House shouted, setting off another reflexive bout of dry heaving.

"I lost my practice because you," Wilson had to project his voice in order to be heard over the sounds echoing inside the toilet bowl, so his ascending rage only helped the matter, "and my patients. All you had to do was take the deal, be bored for two months and then everything could have been normal again." They say to never beat a man when he's down, but no one had ever taught House that rule, so Wilson doubted he would call him out for it. "You asshole! You're a miserable fucking jerk who just likes to mess everything up for everyone around you. But you couldn't just accept the fact that you have a problem!"

House beat his palms against the sides of the toilet, unable to retaliate.

In his anger, Wilson couldn't verbally express any more of what was on his mind. The only solution he could imagine right now was to go home, crawl into bed and hope Santa would set things right.

House looked up at him, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and croaked, "You're still here."

"You're being an idiot." Wilson said, still ignoring him. "Don't worry, I won't hold it against you. Nothing beats OD'ing on Oxy when you're under investigation for drug abuse."

More sounds of vomiting emitted from House, huddled over the toilet, followed by the emission of actual vomit this time, splattering loudly in the bowl. Once satisfied, Wilson dragged him back to bed and kept giving him glasses of water, not really caring if House drank them or not. He had put his phone in his pocket, and checked constantly, urged by paranoia, to make sure it was still there. Just in case.

At that very moment, he hated House. More than any other time, even more than a few hours ago, when Wilson had seen exactly what House had taken, he hated the man. Wilson didn't hate a lot – it wasn't healthy – but House had gone too far. This was unacceptable.

Their friendship had gone on for years, but while Wilson could clearly remember all of the times he'd helped his friend, all of the time, money and energy he'd given up for him, he could only pin-point a handful of times House had ever returned the favor. Wilson was just shooting blanks, doing nothing and getting nothing in return, never anything in return, and he hated House for it, hated him for what he himself had become as a result of all that he'd given up.

It never made sense, even to Wilson, why he was still House's friend. Every ordeal, he swore to himself that next time would be the last time. But it was just water under the bridge, and Wilson never left, and House never changed.

But this… this was too much. House truly had gone too far, this was the actual last straw, the stuff of legend to Wilson. After all of his vigil, all his years of servitude, this had pushed too hard and too far, and Wilson swore then and there that he would be done with it. He would walk out the door and leave House to fend for himself, once and for all. This was the end, he thought, of their friendship.

Maybe he could finally settle down, maybe get an apartment, maybe get a girlfriend, and maybe find a woman he could be with, now that he no longer would have any more insane personal obligations. But this was it. Wilson was done with House, and he would not be there from that point on.

A groan, followed by coughing, interrupted Wilson's thoughts, and he ran without hesitation into the bedroom, like he always did, like he always would, no matter what he wanted.


End file.
